


sometimes feels like forever

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: The Libertines
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 14:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11037642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: Carl closes his eyes, and follows.





	sometimes feels like forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magnoliacelebration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnoliacelebration/gifts).



> This is for Ana, for introducing me to this ship and because I love you.

 

The club walls pulse in the rhythm of an unimaginative bass line, and the dim colors blur into kaleidoscope in front of Carl's eyes. It’s hard to breathe through the sweat and the smoke, and he closes his eyes briefly, but the images remain.

 

It's the acid, probably. Or maybe he's in an alternative universe and the world is  _ ending _ and-

 

"Carlos," Pete croons softly into his hair, and somehow Carl hears him over the music. It brings him back to himself, re-aware of his body, his fucked up lungs and his blistered feet in new boots, and Pete’s arms around his neck. Like a vice, like a chokehold. Like a caress.

 

Out. He'd wanted to get Pete out of there. Before he puked on someone's shoes, or wandered over somewhere into the crowd where Carl couldn't keep an eye on him.

 

It’s vital that he keeps an eye on Pete. He’s forgotten why, exactly, but he has to.

 

"C'mon," he whispers to Pete, who’s making soft noises, a little like groaning, a little like singing, "off we go."

 

Easier said than done. Pete is almost a deadweight where he's got his arms wrapped around Carl's neck, his body sweaty and too-warm against him. Always so miserably tall.

 

He's swaying on his feet, like he's dancing to the awful beat, and they almost topple over when he swings his hips too vigorously. Carl steadies him with a hand on his hip, and the bone cuts sharply into his palm.

 

“Dance with me,” Pete mouths against Carl’s face, his face pallid in the neons and his eyes dark. At least that’s what Carl thinks he says. He doesn’t read Pete as well as he used to, these days.

 

But he lets it go, just this once.

 

They can get out later. They always do, eventually.

 

Carl sighs, presses his face against Pete's worn leather jacket, and follows his lead.

 

*

 

 

Carl wakes up to the morning shining into his eyes, and he groans, rolling over to the empty side of the bed.

 

He's not hungover, so the rays are more like an annoyance instead of actual hellfire, but it’s still tempting to cover his head with the blanket and let the world spin on for a few more hours.

 

Instead, Carl tumbles out of bed and shuffles into some slippers.

 

(He has a fucking pair of slippers now and everything. What next? A bathrobe? Jesus.)

 

He avoids the pile of dirty clothes automatically, and hops over a broken typewriter laid out in the hallway. Carl bought it at a flea market last month and they haven’t found anywhere to put it yet. 

 

Carl will admit that he and Pete are talented in many ways, but interior decorators they are not.

 

The radio is on in the kitchen when he comes in. 

 

Pete isn't making breakfast. If he were, Carl would have known it was a dream.

 

Instead, Pete is eating cereal out of the box. Probably picking out all the raisins, the mad bastard. 

 

The kettle is whistling, but Pete doesn't seem to hear it. He's so engrossed in tapping his feet along to the tune of some fifties crooner on the radio, his eyes closed, his hips swinging, and his bare feet slapping the dirty wooden floor. 

 

Carl knows when he's been spotted, because Pete looks up from his cereal and lights up, grinning. 

 

"Carlos, Carlooss," Pete sings to the melody of the song, and Carl can't help grinning back, his chest warm with fondness.

 

Pete drops his cereal and dances across the kitchen tile to throw his arms around Carl's neck, gentle, but heavy. Drunk on happiness.

 

"Dance with me," he sings softly into Carl's hair.

 

The kettle is still whistling, and the song has changed, and the world could be ending outside their dusty windows, but he can’t find it in himself to care about anything else.

 

Carl closes his eyes, presses his face against the worn cotton of Pete's T-shirt, and follows his lead.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Look at that word count, whoa.


End file.
